gloria
by clarcster
Summary: Portugal and Spain reflect on their empires. Character introspection, more or less historical. Slightly dark undertones.


gloria

_A/N: Character introspection. That's about it. Portugal section was originally written as an RP sample, which I chopped and changed a bit. Said sample was based off a page from a doujin series called 'Maaf'. _

_I haven't written Spain in a long, long time prior to this. Historical liberties are taken, but do bear in mind I also know more about Portuguese history than Spanish... Who'd have thought?_

…

There is silence, and it's as if time has halted entirely, delaying the inevitable. The ocean is calm; the sky is dark and endless and littered with stars, and the moon hangs among them, gracing the water and refracting, sparkling. The ships are, for now, all dormant; the one beneath his feet is so still that it's almost as if he's walking on land again... But _no_, the land is on the horizon – it is close enough; so very close, and yet so very far.

The raids will prove successful, he tells himself. He is the Portuguese Empire, and this is his conquest, and the islands – blissfully unaware of his fleet on their doorstep – are peaceful now, but they will thrive under his rule. He needs these thoughts, and the convincing words of his King and noblemen, to know that these actions will not be in vain. To secure the spice trade. To remain on par with _Espanha _and _Holanda _and _Inglaterra_. For his empire. For _glory_.

He draws in a breath through his nose, and shuts his eyes, and now in the otherwise _utter _silence, he can hear the waves, as small as they are, lapping against the side of the ship. For a moment, he equates himself to the ocean; to the great expanse he had once dreamt of exploring – that very dream now a reality. He has crossed the waters dividing continents, he has seen beauty and horror in all corners of the world, he has chased the horizon with the sun at his heels. He thinks that the ocean, like himself, can be one minute serene and harmless... And raging and destructive the next. The ocean brings prosperity, much like his empire – yet before the prosperity came devastation. Both bring life. Both bring ruin.

He finds the comparison unsettling, and wishes it were not so.

He seeks what little solace he can by clutching at the cross around his neck tightly, bringing the worn shape to his lips. And he asks, in a whisper – he asks knowing that his actions outweigh his request, as the fleet readies the cannons, preparing to break from their sentry where they have been waiting like a pack of ravenous wolves, anticipating his orders to attack... "Please forgive me."

The ocean is a force of nature, it needn't ask for pardon or repent for its sins. But he wonders that if it could, would it do so as he would?

The necklace drops down to his armoured chest with a gentle _chink_, and with another deep exhale, his eyes are open again, and the island ahead is back in view, and though he prays his redemption doesn't fall on deaf ears, he must give the order – now, or never.

"_Fire_!"

…

Everything is alight.

The earth is scorched black, the trees are smouldering, their flames flickering higher and higher, even the sky is painted a bloody shade of red, and yet the sun still hangs above, beating down and watching as if it had been the cause of all this, and the heat is so intense that it might as well have been but _no, _it was man-made – under his orders, under his doing, everything is burning.

He considers this a success, in spite of the wreckage. He is the Spanish empire and when the flames have died away, this land will be in his possession. It's a little late now for him to suppose he might have been a little overzealous with the torches. He puts the thought aside; it will not matter, in the long run. The land will heal, just as any wound. He believes the words of his men – that this is for his empire. For _glory._

There's a taste of ash on his lips and tongue, mixed with saltpetre; it's becoming harder for him to breathe and when he inhales through his mouth, his lungs fill with smoke. He cares little – he's used to it, after all. He wonders if he shouldn't be used to it, but when he closes his eyes, he can hear the flames crackling as they reach for the heavens, and the groaning of the earth beneath his feet, and he can feel the burning on his face and neck, and it is so _natural _that he soon forgets the doubt ever crossed his mind. Everything, from the clinking of his armour as he strides ahead, to the cold metal of the _harquebus _in his hands, reminds him that this is his _purpose_.

He has pursued the ends of the world to be here, after all.

And he opens his eyes once again, though they are aching from the searing heat, to look where he is going – there are men ahead of him, and there are men set to follow, and the only direction in his mind is forwards, _onwards_. He casts his gaze up at the sun, hazing at the edges through the fiery atmosphere. It swells in the sky like a harbinger of death, and he almost finds it difficult to believe that the very same sun rises and sets miles and miles away back home, growing his crops, warming his land and shining upon the sea. Yet even in such a place, the sun's presence is comforting... It is a familiarity, and it reminds him of happier times; times that have kept him going, times close to his heart.

Fire can bring prosperity. Fire can be a source of warmth when it is bitterly cold; it can provide a light in the darkest of hours. And in turn, it can also bring destruction, such was that surrounding him – such was that he had seen before, and would see again. He wonders perhaps if it all feels so natural to him because he, himself, is like the fire... Both are capable of such extremes. Both bring life. Both bring ruin.

He is the empire on which the sun never sets, and never before, he thinks, has the name been so fitting.

…


End file.
